Adventures in Hitting Bottom
by SodaGrape
Summary: In which a young man with antisocial tendencies, a drug habit and a brilliant deductive mind becomes the world's only consulting detective.
1. Chapter 1

"You do realize this is completely unacceptable."

"Sorry – what?" Sherlock, suddenly awake, blinked against the light which now flooded the small room. His limbs felt heavy and warm, and there was a familiar feeling behind his eyes and at the base of his spine of having taken it a bit too far, of powering down the hard drive, of ceasing to give a fuck. The worst part about this particular feeling had always been the coming back.

"How long have you been here?" Mycroft cast his eyes around the dingy bedsit with his customary distain. "No, don't tell me, I can see. Really Sherlock, you could at least make an effort. It's hardly a challenge anymore." He did sound disappointed at this. Sherlock took a quick mental inventory of his body. Finding everything in its proper place he began to lever himself upright as Mycroft continued. "I'll have to take you back to hospital myself. I am a busy man, you know." He stopped and blinked at his brother. "Do try and make a go of it this time. The university has agreed to take you back for the summer semester when you've completed the program."

"I'd rather stay here. Goodbye." Sherlock let his hands rest on his knees, testing the sensation in his fingertips. Dulled, just as he'd expected, but somehow deeper than before. The touch bypassed his brain and shot with electric warmth from the skin of his legs to the pads of his fingers and back again, stopping at every cell in his body along the way. The scratch of the cheap upholstery covering the musty couch on which he was sitting felt _delicious_ against his bare back. The drugs were still doing their work admirably; the dance of carbon and hydrogen, nitrogen and oxygen.

"It wasn't put to you as a request," Mycroft said with infuriating calm.

Sherlock was out again in three days, long enough for the aches to start - longer than he'd gone in a while. The hospital Mycroft had taken him to this time put him in their high-security ward. He could only imagine the things Mycroft must have told them in order to have him placed there. They would have noticed he was gone by now. The janitor's coveralls he had stolen from the employee locker room were ill-fitting and offered little protection from the spring chill. He allowed himself a moment of regret for the loss of his favorite blue overcoat, which he'd left in the bedsit. He couldn't return there; Mycroft would have eyes out already.

He ducked into a well-lit coffee shop as the gray sky began to spit rain and found a seat near the back. He tucked himself up to wait. He sat and listened to the hissing gurgle of the steamer, inhaled the scent of coffee and scorched milk, and tried to let everything pass through him. To be as clear as air. It was only a matter of time before a young man (_a college student studying philosophy going by the packet of rolling tobacco in his left breast pocket and the carefully cultivated rumples in his hair_) left his corduroy blazer on his chair to go to the toilet.

Five minutes later Sherlock was chain smoking, walking along a crowded street with the collar of his new jacket turned up against the wind. The bits of tobacco which flew onto the tip of his tongue with each inhale were pleasant and sharp. He sipped at the vanilla latte he'd taken from the student's table and wished the young man had better taste in coffee. It was a small matter – tedious really – to pick the pocket of a man in an expensive suit who was obviously planning to cheat on his wife and so had withdrawn a large amount of untraceable cash. Now to business.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock awoke in someone else's bedroom. This in itself was unremarkable; he often found himself, upon waking, somewhere unfamiliar and with no real memory of arriving there. What did strike him as noteworthy through the fog in his skull was the warm body in the bed next to him. Well, on top of him, really.

_Female. Aged 22-28. _

_Yellow stain on the middle and index fingers of the hand draped across his bare chest: heavy smoker, right-handed. _

_Track marks, remnants of dark lacquer on the nails in chipped half-moons, professionally bleached and highlighted hair with 3/4 inch roots: recent downfall, perhaps a month or two allowing for the average rate of hair growth. _

The room showed signs of recently lapsed care as well. It was decorated in a style that Sherlock himself leaned towards – comforting modern Victorian. The woman gave a small moan and rolled off him, settling herself with her back towards him and her short, mostly blond hair spread against the pillow.

_Faded tan, no lines: recent trip to the continent and one of their many celebrated nude beaches – no. Tanning bed. Comes from money; corroborated by the furnishings and the sheets. Egyptian cotton. _

_Large bruise on the left side of the neck. Possible bite mark on the left shoulder. Fresh bruises on her hips: oh._

Sherlock placed his left hand on the girl's smooth hip and covered the bruises perfectly with his splayed fingers. From this angle, then. Interesting. The girl stirred, turning towards him. Sherlock saw her sleeping face for the first time.

N_o traces of make-up, signs of childhood acne, carefully groomed eyebrows. Inference: cultivates image of being bohemian. _

_Definitely closer to early twenties. Possibly anaemic: vegetarian? Galaxy of freckles across __bridge of nose. No significant recent weight loss or gain. Quite striking in appearance._

The girl in question sighed and opened her eyes. _Brown. Astigmatic. _

"Hello again," she said, grinning, and pushed her body against him. _American. In London at least three years, judging by the vowel slippage. _She brushed her lips over his, pressing her small breasts against his chest. She arched into him and he felt a jolt of indistinct memory, of sweat and salt and heat. Sherlock rolled onto his back and she sat astride him, kissing his neck, pulling at his hair, writhing and making small whimpering noises. He found this quite pleasing, if slightly amusing.

She placed a small hot hand around the erection he always woke up with and settled herself slowly onto him. His nerves sparked and jumped – this was unexpected. He knew people often got themselves into this type of situation. In fact, most males his age spent a great deal of time and mental effort in the single-minded pursuit of just such an occurrence. He'd never fully understood why until she lifted herself nearly off him and slid back down again.

"Oh." He said, and he heard the surprise in his own voice as the girl smiled down at him. This was something new. She rocked above him with a slow and steady pulling rhythm, in counter-time to her heart. He was intrigued. Quite suddenly she shuddered and pushed against him. He began to feel an odd, unsettled feeling, as if there was something more he should be doing, but she rolled off him and put her head on his chest.

Later, after he'd observed firsthand a bit more about female anatomy, she told him her name.

"Irene. Doesn't it sound like someone's nana?" She laughed, tracing her fingertips lightly along his hipbone, and if Sherlock had possessed a single poetic neuron he would have composed a thousand postmodern odes to that sensation.

"Not as bad as Sherlock," he joined in, warmth pooling in his belly. "I always thought that with a change in the wind they might have named me Trulatch." Irene thought for a moment and then began shaking with silent laughter. _Irene. Peace, from the Greek. Warrants further __study._


	3. Chapter 3

She was the singer in a frankly appalling folk band comprised of uni dropouts and trust-fund babies. Her voice was incandescent.

Sherlock concluded that they were made for each other one night after a particularly poorly-attended gig. The rest of the band had wandered off and he and Irene had remained behind in the alleyway to the rear of the club. To begin the experiment Sherlock reached a hand between the buttons of Irene's blouse, causing one to pop off and bounce away into the dimness of the alley. "Look what you've _done,_" she teased, and began unfastening his fly.

He undid the rest of her buttons carefully, pulling the fabric aside to reveal her bare breasts. Her hand was in his boxers now, freeing him. He soon had her backed up against the brick wall. He was panting, which made him feel slightly ridiculous, but then she hiked up her skirt and he no longer cared about anything else, which felt wonderful. He lifted her up so that they were level with each other and she guided him into her as she wrapped her legs tight around his waist. He put his forehead against hers and watched the flush spread in her cheeks, but remained perfectly still. Irene made an extraordinary little mewling sound and began to rock against him, but he gripped her thighs tighter to prevent her from achieving any movement.

"Stop." Sherlock said, almost a growl, in a voice he didn't recognize as his own. Irene was panting, too. She began running her hands through his hair wildly, turning his head from side to side. He kept his mouth too far away for her to kiss.

"Fuck you." She was grinning. "You fuck. Fucker." She dug her nails into his scalp and scratched him up and down his back. He arched into her despite himself.

"Bad form, Adler." He knew he was grinning too, tried to stop and couldn't. He was fascinated to see what would happen next.

Their breathing began to synchronize. His heart started to beat where they were joined and he saw by the steady throb of her carotid that their hearts had matched up as well. He closed his eyes and felt as if he was disappearing into her. The scientist in him demanded further experimentation before Sherlock shut him up.

He remained still. Irene seemed to have given in when he felt her tense around him. His eyes flew open at the sensation and he saw that she still wore her lopsided grin.

_Poor dental work in adolescence. Upper mandible slightly crowded. Left incisor sticks out like a fang. Signs of tartar between the - "_Bloody hell, Irene!" She'd spit in his face and was struggling now, wildly, her hands scrabbling at his shoulder blades. Sherlock slammed her back against the wall and bit her shoulder gently as she pulled him to her, cursing and scratching. He managed to still her again by pinning her hands against her sides, but he was suddenly unable to prevent himself from thrusting into her. Their shared rhythm had become undeniable. He relaxed his grip on her arms and she grabbed his arse, pulling him towards her, trapping him.

"Yes." She said. There was a note of pleading in the word which sent a bolt of white up Sherlock's spine and behind his eyes, momentarily blinding him. He kissed her jaw, just below the earlobe; his first kiss. Irene met his thrusts while her hot breath kept tempo in his ear. It felt wonderful and terrible – he was almost frightened at his lack of control. He didn't want to stop, but didn't feel he could stop even if he wished to.

Something much too large began to fill his body. He smelled ozone and came suddenly, violently, his knees going weak under him. He poured into her and lost himself, thinking absolutely nothing, for how long he wasn't sure. Moments after his senses had returned he felt Irene fluttering around him and she made a noise more beautiful than anything he had ever heard, an equal blend of pleasure and pain, tuned to a perfect E.


	4. Chapter 4

He played a stolen violin (a "fiddle", she called it endearingly) at a few of their gigs until the group imploded from infighting and a general lack of talent. They went to the seaside together and made enough money to support their habit both by performing on the boardwalk and through his mostly unremarked upon pickpocketing. He played, she sang, and the world vibrated with an unfamiliar light.

Never before had Sherlock inhabited his own frame so completely. He marveled at the strange magnetism he felt drawing him on top of her, under her, inside her. There was a feeling of finality in it, as if this was what all those years of wanking alone had been preparing him for, had been pretending to be. He practiced waiting until the last possible moment (_until she had just tipped over the edge with a look of pure bliss on her face and her eyes had gone all unfocused and her cunt was beginning to pulse around him_) before he allowed himself to surrender control. He became very good at it.

Mycroft found them entangled on a mattress in a small rented bungalow two weeks after they'd left London. "This is an interesting development," he said dryly as he watched them struggle towards consciousness, the excesses of the night before still drying on the sheets and singing in their blood.

"Fuck _off_, Mycroft." Sherlock snarled, too absent to be truly cutting. "You'd think a brother of mine would be at least polite enough to knock." Mycroft ignored this.

"We've always wondered, Sherlock. It appears I've lost a wager." Mycroft tapped the tip of his unnecessary umbrella on the warped floorboards. "Well, time to go. I can bring them in now unless you would prefer to avoid a...scene." Sherlock glanced at Irene and saw the confusion in her expression. He kissed her violently, digging his fingers into her thigh, satisfied at the repressed grimace that ran through his brother's flabby frame. "This is your brother?" She asked when he pulled away. "Sherlock, _what_ - ?"

"I'll see you soon." Sherlock stood, pulled on his trousers, and followed Mycroft outside to the waiting car.

Sherlock was more careful the next time. He had chosen Brighton because of the memories he'd had there as a child – he would allow no such sentiment to endanger them again. He found Irene back in London. She was living with Gil, the ex-banjo player from the failed folk group, and she had a three-day-old black eye. Sherlock split his knuckles wide open on the man's teeth, stopping only when Irene started to cry. It was a horrible, stretched sound. Gil had been the one who introduced Irene to certain chemical compounds, and there was a large stash of the same in his apartment. They took it all.

They found a quiet park to shoot up in and were lying side by side under a large hedge. Sherlock could hear the sounds of children playing and laughing through the greenery.

"You're so thin," Irene said. Her hand was under his shirt, exploring.

"Yes, well, he nearly got me this time." He'd been losing close to three kilos a day in the hospital.

"You mean your brother. What an idiot. Doesn't he see what he's doing?" Sherlock tried and failed to follow her thought process.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked. Irene let out a slow puff of air.

"You obviously won't kick if he keeps trying to force you into it. It's already become a kind of game to you, defying him. He's doing you more harm than good."

"Mm." Sherlock considered this. He listened to a young girl shout with frustration at something one of her companions had done.

"Don't leave me again," Irene said, and put her small hand in his.


End file.
